


what's your motive with me baby (cause i don't trust nobody lately)

by orbit



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Barebacking, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-05 23:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12804801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbit/pseuds/orbit
Summary: He knows what Mickey would probably say if he knew Ian was thinking that – something like, ‘Jesus, Gallagher, I'm here cause I got fed up of fucking girls.’ If he was in a good mood that day, at least; then Ian would be able to spot the little twinkle in his eye. The one he can't place, not perfectly, but it's something in between amusement and fondness. Not that Mickey would admit to it. He doesn't admit to much but Ian's gotten used to it, to hearing Mickey's confessions in his own ways.





	what's your motive with me baby (cause i don't trust nobody lately)

**Author's Note:**

> i had no idea how to tag this. i haven't posted to ao3 in a long while – all my old fics are gone cause i went from supernatural to bandom to one direction and they weren't very good lol. anyway, i'm not really sure what this is, i had a couple of sentences stuck in my head and then it kind of ran away from me, but i hope you enjoy it
> 
> also: cw for sex without a condom. i don't think ian and mickey ever used them in the show, but if you don't want to read that then here's your warning. please let me know if there's anything else like that i should add
> 
> title is from the song face by brockhampton

Ian watches the back of Mickey's head dip down from across the bed, no more than two feet apart from each other, though in that moment it may as well have been an ocean. The knobs of his spine shift as he bends, barely defined under his pale skin which is mottled with bruises. Some Ian had just pressed and sucked into him only minutes ago, rough but never intending pain, unlike the rest – from fists, feet, pistols, a gnarly one on the side of his ribs from a glass bottle. Mickey had casually mentioned it. Most are from his dad, probably, if Ian had to guess.  
  
  
  
Smoke travels upwards from where Mickey's hunched over. His shoulders are tight. Ian had felt it when he gripped Mickey there as he held himself deep inside him, slowly rolled his hips, tried to fuck the tension out of him. It was working before Mickey slapped his thigh and told him (with a waver in his voice that really diminished the anger he was trying to project) to get the fuck on with it. Though it only helped in that moment, it was a tiny victory Ian was willing to accept. He never has any other opportunity to fix things – beggars can't be choosers, so he'll take what he can get.  
  
  
Pulling Ian out of his thoughts, Mickey reaches back and offers him the cigarette in his hand. A shock jitters Ian's fingers when they connect with Mickey's to take a drag from it. Mickey's eyes follow the action all the way to Ian's lips and he's unabashed, openly staring. Then he licks his own lips, pink and puffy and so fucking soft. They look soft, at least, Ian wouldn't really know. It makes something white-hot twist in his gut – a mixture of things, really, most of which he wants to ignore.

 

God, Ian wants to kiss him. He wants to grab him by the back of the neck and smash their lips together, hard enough to bruise, for their teeth to click painfully. He wants wet, open-mouthed kisses when they're fucking, wants chaste kisses when he's saying goodbye, wants hello kisses so good he's shaking at the knees. Not that he's ever had a kiss like that before, he knows it's some fairytale bullshit, but he thinks Mickey could give him that. Most of all, he wants Mickey to want to give him that – sometimes, Ian suspects he does. A lot of the time, actually, Ian wonders if Mickey's asking for it.

 

He knows what Mickey would probably say if he knew Ian was thinking that – something like, ‘Jesus, Gallagher, I'm here cause I got fed up of fucking girls.’ If he was in a good mood that day, at least; then Ian would be able to spot the little twinkle in his eye. The one he can't place, not perfectly, but it's something in between amusement and fondness. Not that Mickey would admit to it. He doesn't admit to much but Ian's gotten used to it, to hearing Mickey's confessions in his own ways.

  
  
  
Mickey sucks his bottom lip into his mouth for a moment before it reappears, unnaturally pink from him biting down so that he stayed quiet when Ian pounded into him. Mickey's practically forcing him to notice it, reminding him of the image that's burned into his brain now; Mickey's flushed cheeks, face buried in the sheets that his fingers were curled into so Ian could only see one side contort then relax, pearly white teeth digging into plump lips, and every time Ian sees the sight he's reminded that Mickey loves dick –  _his_ dick – more than any guy he's been with.

  
  
A smirk tugs at Mickey's mouth, as if on cue; it makes Ian blink a couple times to focus on Mickey's entire face. He knows exactly what he's doing, the smug prick. It only serves to bring Ian's cock back to life, throbbing dully and half-hard in his boxers.  
  
  
  
“Iggy called me,” Mickey starts as he takes the cigarette back from Ian, their fingers brushing again, “Dad's in the slammer all weekend. Bar fight.”  
  
  
  
There's a pregnant pause and Ian has to fight back a smile so Mickey doesn't tell him to fuck off. He surprises Ian constantly.  
  
  
  
“Can, uh, stay if you want. Gotta be out early though.”  
  
  
  
Ian knows. He just nods, lets the smile play on his lips; that's when Mickey rolls his eyes and stubs the smoke out, clumsily straddles Ian's lap. He doesn't do it often. His dick is still soft, Ian notes; he lets Ian's hands find his hips which alone is a goddamn rarity for Mickey so Ian's gonna appreciate it whilst he's got it.  
  
  
  
  
It's hard trying to figure out Mickey's mood now, as they stare at each other in earnest; the tightness of his jaw and his spine conflicts with the tentative hand on Ian's chest, spitting on the palm of his other and reaching behind himself to jerk Ian off roughly a couple of times, getting him fully hard. It doesn't take much – his grip's always tighter than how Ian would touch himself or even how Ian would touch Mickey, but it gets him off and he's not complaining.

 

Mickey sinks down on his cock in one swift move, way too quickly, earning himself a pained grunt. Ian hates when he does that, especially when he doesn't have to. They fucked not long ago but – well, Ian's not small and he knows Mickey likes the burn, it's fucking hot, but he also knows when it's just straight up painful even if he's never had a dick in his own ass.

 

“Mickey,” Ian half-groans, his grip tightening on his already bruised hips, “Lube. Get the lube.” 

 

Ian knows he's right when Mickey doesn't even protest or respond with snark as he leans back to grab the lube they'd discarded haphazardly somewhere earlier on, still seated on Ian's cock. Ian's gotten good at staying still when Mickey's on top, even though he could count on one hand the amount of times they've fucked in this position – the thing he's absolutely terrible at is keeping his hands in one place. Gently, as Mickey blindly searches on the bed, he skates his hand across Mickey's torso and pinches a nipple. He's rewarded with a spasm of Mickey's hips which makes them both groan and then a hard slap on the back of his hand.

 

“Fucking perv,” Mickey mutters, the fakest scowl Ian's ever seen plastered on his face. Ian smiles cheekily, watches Mickey rise up on his thighs – fuck, his thighs, Ian has to drop his hands down and squeeze them – until just the head of his cock is inside him. They both take in a sharp breath and Ian's leg twitches when he feels lube drizzle down his balls.

 

“S'cold,” he jerks a little and the smirk that was on Mickey's face fades as he lowers back down, his jaw dropping a little. After a couple of small circles of his hips that elicits a moan from the both of them (thank God for an empty house) he leans his palms on Ian's chest and starts up a rhythm, slamming down relentlessly, taking what he wants from Ian and leaving him breathless.

 

Mickey's fucking beautiful like this. Ian can see him letting go, bit by bit, in a way he seldom lets anyone see. He's gasping and Ian watches that pretty flush that spreads down to his chest, slick with sweat that Ian wants to run his hands through, whimpers he can tell he's trying so hard to suppress escaping his throat as he leans back, resting his hands just above Ian's knees to work his cock at a different angle. His thighs quiver and that telltale grunt leaves Mickey's lips – Ian can't hold back any longer.

 

“Mick,” Ian pants rather uselessly, a vice grip on his sides, pressing into bruises he left earlier on as he drives his cock into Mickey with abandon, like he'll die if he doesn't, like if he doesn't rip Mickey's orgasm out of him the world will end. Mickey's moaning turns near-constant, low and trembling, barely audible over the sound of skin against skin but Ian's ears are tuned to the sound. He's still fucking staring down at him even though sometimes all Ian can see are the whites of his eyes through his heavy lids, which he knows he shouldn't find insanely hot because in any other circumstance it'd be creepy as fuck but Mickey looks like he's in heaven right now as he darts his tongue out to lick his swollen lips, jaw still agape. Ian feels like every single one of his nerve endings are ablaze, his thighs burning as he gives it to Mickey as good as he's getting. 

 

On a particularly hard thrust, Mickey shudders and the way he clenches around Ian's dick makes the blood rush to his ears and his heart thump even harder in his chest.

 

“Right there, right fuckin’ there, that's–” Mickey wraps his hand around his own cock which has been bobbing against his stomach this whole time, shades darker than the rest of his pale skin and Ian immediately slaps it away, replacing it with his own. “Shit,  _Ian.”_

 

Ian nearly comes then, grabbing the back of Mickey's neck to pull him down as he pounds into him with renewed vigor, their sweaty foreheads pressed together. Somewhere, in the back of Ian's mind, he's surprised Mickey lets it happen but he just matches his thrusts with Ian's, babbling mindlessly under his breath in a way that's making him lose his mind.

 

“God, don't fucking stop, please don't fucking stop,” Mickey heaves, and this the first time he's ever been this vocal. Ian has to up his game because at this rate he's gonna cum before Mickey and that'd be fucking tragic.

 

“You're so fucking tight, Mickey,” Ian hisses and he knows it's a cliché thing to say but it's true, and he expects Mickey to tell him to shut the fuck up – he doesn't, if anything his babbling becomes _more_ ceaseless, chanting Ian's name, turning into an incoherent mess. Ian seizes the opportunity. “Taking my cock like you were made for it, like a goddamn slut. You gonna come?” 

 

“Yeah, yeah, f- _fuck,_   _Ian,_ I'm gonna come,” Mickey echoes, their noses bumping together and Ian can feel Mickey's heaving breath against his mouth, he knows Mickey must too – he could kiss him right now, swallow Mickey's moans as he's falling apart on Ian's cock. He doesn't, though.

 

Groaning low, Ian plants his feet on the mattress and grabs Mickey's hip with the hand that was gripping the back of his neck. He pushes Mickey down onto his cock at the same time that he thrusts upwards with a hard swipe of his thumb over Mickey's cockhead, and when Mickey freezes he knows he's coming. 

 

Any sound that was escaping Mickey's mouth is gone, cut off by a broken whine before he's completely silent as Ian presses so fucking deep and holds himself there, lets Mickey frantically roll and jerk his hips, spilling all over Ian's stomach. He's tight, so fucking tight and hot around Ian. He's still shaking through his orgasm and Ian's so close, he can't help but wonder if he can drag it out for longer, wreck Mickey even further.

 

He starts up a brutal pace again and chases his own orgasm. It doesn't take long. Everything is tipping him over the edge; Mickey's body plastered against his, his legs twitching and wriggling at the stimulation as he  _still_ keeps on fucking Ian, his lips, his damp forehead, the blown out look in his eyes and the jut of his hip and the way he's panting and the scent of just _Mickey_  when he inhales through his nose, everything – he's everything. Ian thrusts a few more times, uncoordinated and desperate, and near blacks out when he's emptying his come inside Mickey's ass. 

 

Ian's barely recovered when Mickey rolls off of him and onto his back, maybe sooner than he normally would, Ian can't really tell. Both of them are panting like they've run a marathon. He's got a stupid wide grin on his face, his ears are ringing – he knows his cum is leaking out of Mickey's ass right now and that's just the cherry on top, even if Mickey would call him a fucking freak for thinking it.

 

Out of nowhere, Mickey lands a punch on his arm,  _hard._

 

“Ow! What the fuck was that for?” Ian jerks away with a deep frown and rubs his arm. His afterglow is gone now, just replaced with the urge to punch Mickey back. He doesn't even look angry, he just looks fucked out. Because of Ian. The feeling goes just as fast as it came.

 

“If you call me a slut when we're fucking again -- or ever, actually -- I'm gonna rip your dick off and shove it down your throat.”

 

Mickey sounds completely serious and that's the only thing refraining Ian from telling him that he wouldn't because he loves his dick too much. That's basically calling him a slut again.

 

“I'm not a fucking chick,” Mickey continues. “Don't fuckin' talk to me like I am one.”

 

 _You seemed to like it,_ is what Ian wants to say but wouldn't in a million years. What he does say is, “If you were a chick, we wouldn't be fucking.”

 

That earns him a glare anyway. Ian can't tell if it's because Mickey's been reminded of his gayness or if he thinks Ian's just a smartass. The little twitch of Mickey's brow makes Ian think it's the latter. 

**Author's Note:**

> do you ever have that problem where you think you're finished writing and you don't really know if that's the right place to end it but when you write more it doesn't feel like it fits any better? that's me


End file.
